<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>The Wolf and the Grapevine by honeypieblues</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29496426">The Wolf and the Grapevine</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeypieblues/pseuds/honeypieblues'>honeypieblues</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Beatles (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - No Beatles, Coming of Age, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Everyone Is Gay, F/F, Hunter! George, Hunter! Paul, Hurt/Comfort, I promise, John is a he-wolf and is also the worst, M/M, Maybe. MAYBE hard maybe, Multi, Shapeshifting, Technically? Mostly inspired by that era since yknow he's 20, Teddy Boy John Lennon, This is not going in the direction you think it is, Wolf! John, Wolf! Ringo, unspecified time period</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 00:54:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,102</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29496426</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeypieblues/pseuds/honeypieblues</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>James Paul McCartney, the eldest son of a long line of hunters, has just turned 18. In order to be considered a real man, he has to leave home and kill his first wolf. However, he soon finds that it's much easier said than done.</p><p>John Winston Lennon, the son of Canidae shapeshifters, has been cursed for his ornery spirit-- Deep in the heart of the forest, he's been tangled in a mass of grapevines, and he will remain tangled until a hunter with a kind heart decides to set him free... Or do worse.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>George Harrison/Ringo Starr, Jane Asher/Cynthia Lennon, John Lennon/Paul McCartney</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. This Bird Has Flown</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>"Hunters kill wolves."</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The boy… </span>
  <em>
    <span>Man</span>
  </em>
  <span> shakily repeated the mantra to himself under his breath, his thumb circling around a cold, stone handle that rested heavily in his palm. It was true. Hunters killed wolves, and he was a hunter now. Well… He was expected to be one. </span>
  <em>
    <span>As if there’s much of a difference,</span>
  </em>
  <span> his mind nipped.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>James Paul McCartney had just turned 18 the day before, but his face wouldn’t show it; he didn’t look a day over 15. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His mother always doted on how beautiful of a boy he was, with eyes as green as spring grass, and hair as black as coal. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Let me kiss you, rosey,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> the woman would say, leaning down to press her lips against the boy’s pinked cheeks. Paul never went a day without knowing he held a sort of beauty, thanks to his mother. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That was four years ago.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Four years since he’d seen her alive, and yet, his face had barely changed. Paul didn’t know if that was a blessing, or a curse. The only thing that separated him from the child he so desperately wanted to be again were the purple circles under his rounded eyes, and how his hair had grown to frame his face with a sort of fragility. He hardly looked like a man, like a </span>
  <em>
    <span>hunter.</span>
  </em>
  <span> And, to be honest, Paul didn’t want to. Why pretend to be something you’re not supposed to be?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Even his own birthday party, a celebration that was supposed to be mirthful and dizzying, acted as a reminder of what was to come.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Paul just barely remembered it; all of the men [except for Paul and his father] had been boozing themselves up, only drooling and grumbling out their congratulations after they’d filled their bellies with the grape wine that was supplied. And all the girls… Well, when they’d heard that the rose-faced man was unmarried, they just had to take their passes. Paul politely turned each of them down, with the excuse that </span>
  <em>
    <span>he was going to be a hunter soon,</span>
  </em>
  <span> and a hunter would never make for a good husband. He smiled his dazzling smiles, and delivered his polite winks, but no real charm laid behind his gestures. Only a frantic sense of ‘I’m growing up too fast, could you please give me a little time to think?’ His honey-talking worked well enough, Paul thought, and what was a little white lie if it saved everyone some heart break?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The presents were pure opulence, a stark contrast of everything he’d ever known as a poor boy. It should’ve only made sense-- He was the son of the town’s most revered ‘protector.’ Still, an uneasy delight </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally</span>
  </em>
  <span> came to him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Leather bound books were given in heaps, some about the surrounding woods, some about herbal medicine, and one thick brown book all about song. Even if his father always told him to not focus on such useless pastimes, Paul liked music. It was a lovely thing to like. If it weren’t for the bubbling anxiety still clawing him up from inside his belly, he’d be excited to read it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’d received some new clothes, something Paul welcomed. He was wearing his old ones thin. His favorite turned out to be a deep blue button-up, made with a strange, shining fabric and tightly stitched lantern sleeves. It reminded him of the princes he looked up to as a child, the ones his mother told him about to help him sleep. With their beautiful silks and defined silhouettes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A particularly beautiful girl made it her goal to deliver her gift up-front; a tightly corked bottle of dandelion wine, clear as crystal and tinted with a soft yellow. The glass felt nicely weighted in his hands, and Paul made sure to give the lass an impossibly sweet kiss on the cheek as a token of appreciation.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The rest of the party had been a sludge of overstimulation and rushed greetings. Paul couldn’t remember half of it if he tried.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Still, as blurry as last night had been, he’d remembered one gift the best-- The one from his own father.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The day had long ended, and Paul had been up in his room for nearly an hour, curled up in a blanket and reading his new music book under the light of a tallow candle. His father knocked on his door before opening it. Nothing was said, no glances were given, but a package wrapped in rough cloth was slid inside. Maybe the man had assumed Paul was asleep, maybe he just didn’t want the confrontation.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>In the now</span>
  </em>
  <span>, as Paul stood, muttering his little mantra to himself and practically squeezing the stoney weight in his hand, he was nervous. He knew what his father gave to him </span>
  <em>
    <span>sealed</span>
  </em>
  <span> his position as a hunter, practically fucking cornered him there with a knife to his neck. He looked at the item, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>gift,</span>
  </em>
  <span> set steady in his trembling palm; a handcrafted dagger, with a carved jadestone handle and a polished steel blade. It was a beautiful thing, but looking at it made him sick. It was a new nausea that he’d never been familiar with, and for the first time in years, he thought he was going to cry for his mother to come and comfort him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>James Paul McCartney had just turned 18. He was kind, and even rebellious, to an extent. He took after his mother’s love, and struggled against the tight grip his father had around every single aspect of his life. Paul could’ve been so much, anything, if he tried. But he wasn’t, and couldn’t be, a hunter. He’d never been so damn sure of something in his life, he would believe that he wasn’t a hunter before he’d believe Mary was dead, and he helped </span>
  <em>
    <span>bury</span>
  </em>
  <span> her. The boy finally pocketed the shining blade, brows knitting together as he turned to look at himself in his mirror.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The blue button up he’d been gifted looked like royalty on him, the silhouette of his arms flaring out near his wrists. The faint gold shimmer the material held in the window sunlight made him look all the more princely, and Paul smiled, feeling a little wrong. Maybe he really </span>
  <em>
    <span>could’ve</span>
  </em>
  <span> been a prince, in a different life. But it was nearly time to leave. His father would want him out of the house by noon, and it was already dawn. No need to drag out the theatrics.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Paul grabbed the bulky satchel he’d packed and sat by his bed the night before, letting the coolness of the leather seep through his palms and calm his nerves. It was heavy with books, clothes, the money he’d managed to save up through the years, and his new glittering bottle of dandelion wine. He didn’t intend on taking it at first, but if he didn’t, he just knew Mike would ransack his room and drink down every drop. Unlike Paul, the kid was still that-- A kid. His smile became a little more genuine as he thought more and more of his ornery little brother, slugging his bag over his shoulder. The blade was still heavy in his pocket, but it felt less like a weight on his conscience, now.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As Paul stepped out of his bedroom, he shut the door behind him, walking as quietly as his boots would allow him to. If his father wasn’t already awake, then he didn’t want to wake him up himself. The man got a little grumpy if he couldn’t at least sleep until 7-- But it looked like Jim was a step ahead, as always, sitting at the wooden table in the center-room with a steaming cup in his hands. He nodded towards the empty chair next to him with a grunt of acknowledgement. Paul came over and sat down. Something smelled sweet, and he looked down to find his own cup below him. His father had made him blueberry tea, his favorite… The boy had to resist the newfound tightness in his throat the best he could. “Morning, da’,” Paul hummed, lifting the cup up to take a sip. The warmth of the ceramic against his lips was pleasant, even though the liquid screamed with heat all the way down his throat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Morning, Paul,” Jim parroted. He looked tired out of his mind. “Why are you up so early?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Same reason you are,” Paul honestly replied, looking down to his packed belongings. It made him feel a little self conscious. “Just thought I’d get a headstart, you know? The sooner I leave, the sooner I get back.” Jim chuckled a little.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re still nervous, aren’t you, son?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Paul’s mouth went dry, and all he could think to do was dumbly nod. To his surprise, the look on Jim’s face wasn’t one of disappointment. The older man nodded, prompting him to say more, </span>
  <em>
    <span>explain</span>
  </em>
  <span> more. Paul swallowed his feelings the best he could, and they tasted bitter the whole way down. “I’ve never been away from home for so long… ‘n it’s a little dangerous. Not that I don’t want to do it! Being a hunter ‘n all,” he lied through his teeth, and it seemed to fool Jim well enough. “Jus’... What if I’m no good at it?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The man across from him sighed, taking a long sip from his piping hot drink. The crinkle in his eye told Paul that it burned him all the same. “Paul, listen to me. There’s no wrong way to be a hunter. You just kill wolves, that’s all. It’s always scary, the first time, but you’re doing your part to keep people safe. All a wolf’s good for is terrorizing folks, ‘n killing livestock. It’s in you, as a McCartney, to make sure they don’t. You’ll be </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span> at it. Best thing is, you won’t be alone.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That was news to Paul. “Wait… I won’t be?” Jim nodded.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I wrote to a friend, lad has a son near your age. And now you’ve got a hunting partner,” the man said it so casually, as if he hadn’t just lifted a heavy weight off of his own son’s shoulders. “You’re… Young. And you’re my own. I don’t want you to get hurt. Having someone with you, it’ll keep you both safe. And the boy’s smart. He knows what he’s doing.” The two shared a tight lipped smile. Paul understood the tenderness behind the sentiment. He knew his dad loved him, even if they didn’t always get on, and this was just one of his ways of showing it. Looking after his little boy, even when he wasn’t so little anymore. “I’ll go get the maps. I’ve marked… Almost everything for you.” Paul nodded silently, even while knowing his approval wasn’t needed. Jim left the table, went down the hall, and left his son alone with his racing thoughts.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Paul fumbled with his puffed sleeves, idly rolling the fabric between his fingers. Even with the very little light that the center room windows allowed, it still shimmered. He noticed how everything seemed to glow a light amber shade, from the wood table under him to the glasses sitting on the counter. The sunrise must’ve been beautiful outside, but he didn’t dare to go outside and take a look yet. The soon-to-be hunter was going to have a hunting partner, which meant lots of things. All positives, but it didn’t stop him from being anxious. His father was right, this was safer, </span>
  <em>
    <span>infinitely</span>
  </em>
  <span> safer. From what he’d been taught, he knew the wolves near their parts had stopped hunting in packs when the risk of ambush largely outweighed the convenience of sticking together. But that didn’t mean a single wolf couldn’t still get a human’s arm or leg between its powerful jaws. Paul felt the blood drain from his face as he imagined it, an imaginary pain throbbing in his limbs just at the thought. That’s exactly the reason why a hunting partner was golden. If one of them is struck down, then the other will help. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Paul was pulled out of his thoughts by a heavy ‘thump’ on the table, and he shot up to see his father… Who’d brought more than just some maps, from the looks of it. “Paul,” the man spoke up, something about his voice seeming uncharacteristically fragile. It spooked the boy. “You’re 18 now. Your mother wanted you to have this as soon as you turned, god forbid I read it, though.” He slid the bulk over to Paul, who almost immediately recognized it to be a journal, the maps he needed folded and sticking from the top like odd feathers. The pages of the book were worn and seemed to be waterlogged, stained a creme brown. Still, despite the damage, a name could be clearly seen on the cover, carved into the material. ‘Mary.’ Paul carefully grabbed it, almost as if touching the thing could burn his skin and leave him more scarred than he already was. He blinked away forming tears that he didn’t even know were in his eyes, and when Jim cleared his throat, the boy knew his father was doing the exact same thing. “Just don’t let whatever it says get to you. She was writing in it like a mad woman before she… Passed. Purely delusional, I’m telling you.” The words stung, something about his father’s tone dripping with caution, but Paul nodded.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, da’,” Paul croaked out. He carefully tucked it away into his satchel, snuggly next to his newest music book. They looked nice together, he thought. Something else was bundled in Jim’s hand, but he didn’t know what it was until he gestured for Paul to rise.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As Paul stood, eyes as wide as tired eyes could be, Jim tossed a cloak around the boy’s shoulders. His fingers worked to fasten the brassy metal clasp near the neck. “It was mine, when I was your age,” Jim explained quickly. Like he was rushing the emotions away. “Gifted to me after my first kill, you just-- You looked like you’d need it.” Paul finally looked down at the cloak. It dripped down from his shoulders, to below his knees. It was made with thick, jewel tone green velvet. Mossy, and inconvenient for travel, but gorgeous. “It’ll get cold where you’re going, in the evenings. And you didn’t exactly choose warm clothes...” Paul flushed with embarrassment, grabbing the edges of the cloak to tug it around him closer. It smelled strongly of dust and wood, like it had been folded under Jim’s bed for years. Still, along with it came something softer, more familiar; he recognized it to be Lilac, almost immediately.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, da’.” Paul weakly smiled, nothing close to his usual toothy grin. Still, it was something. “I’ll stay warm.” Standing together in relative comfort, the boy didn’t make any sort of move to hug his father. Jim wasn’t used to affection. And if they hugged, neither of them would have the strength to let go. Paul stepped away, hands searching for his bag, which he pulled up from the floor quickly. “I should get going, want to get a move on before it gets too hot, y’know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jim coughed into his fist, nodding as if it were the easiest thing in the world. They both knew it wasn’t true. “Right. You should. Sooner the better, but,” he picked up Paul’s cup, giving it a quick tap. “You haven’t finished your tea yet.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>~ ~ ~</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was around 8 o’clock or so when Paul finally left the house, </span>
  <em>
    <span>[the house that he wouldn’t see again for a good few weeks,]</span>
  </em>
  <span> if the sunrise told him anything. It felt like saying goodbye to everything. And in a way, it was. As he stepped off from the porch and onto the ground, his boot heels sinking below him, he bid a sad farewell to his livelihood. “Off t’go get eaten by wolves,” Paul called to the heap of wood, knowing the whole situation was a bit silly. “Keep da’ and Mike safe, won’t you?” As if the house heard the pain in his voice and decided it was worthy of a response, a faint shatter and a string of curses came from the inside. Paul could only assume was Jim dropping a cup and breaking it. He giggled.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As if on autopilot, Paul walked forward, down the hill. His eyes burned holes at the map in his hands, trying to decipher the scribbles his father had written down on the paper. It didn’t help that all the colors were muddled together, and the ink was faded with age. </span>
  <em>
    <span>A dirt path wasn’t too far from where he was, splitting right through Moonvine Valley and into the woods. It should be a straight stretch to the cabin he’d be staying at, with the only obstacle being a few shops.</span>
  </em>
  <span> When he finally managed to push his fear down, Paul felt a twinge of excitement in his chest, combined with the cool air of the morning and the buzzing energy of the songbirds. The last time he’d been to a real shop was when he was fifteen, having to pick up herbs to ease a fever Mike had.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Paul soon could see the beginning of the valley, framed with little white flowers and shagged grass. The surrounding hills weren’t too big, to where child Paul, maybe six or seven, never knew why it was called a valley in the first place. Wouldn’t a dip be more accurate? That was when he learned words didn’t usually have set in stone meanings. And, right on the map, at the very end of the little dirt road, sat a crude drawing of a brick store hastily labeled as “Ritchie’s place.” Paul stared at the mark dumbly. Why hadn’t he heard of it before, if it was so close to home? Had he really been so sheltered? He’d been to Moonvine valley plenty of times, even if it was to play without permission, or pick flowers for the kitchen. But he swore he had never seen a shop. Then again, Paul never made it to the end of the dirt road. Maybe it was longer than he remembered, or maybe the shop was entirely new. Maybe Jim had even mislabeled something, but Paul couldn’t care less.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Stopping by for a few extra supplies wouldn’t hurt anything, if “Ritchie’s place” was even there at all. And considering he was already thinking of home, feet itching to turn around and run back as fast as he could, he needed the distraction...</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. 'Ritchie's Place'</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>That ‘little brick building’ was bigger than Paul had expected.</p><p> </p><p>‘Ritchie’s place’ didn’t even give the boy the comfort of looking new, and shiny-- The wood of the stairs were well worn, rain streaks and dirt staining the sides of the store. Its age was well shown, which meant that Paul really <em> hadn’t </em> noticed it the whole time he’s lived up on the hill. Still, something about the place was inviting to Paul. Maybe it was the smoke pouring from the chimney, or the soft light coming from the windows, but he felt charmed nonetheless. An ‘open’ sign hung from the door, welcoming him to twist the knob, and he obliged, coming inside without so much as a knock.</p><p> </p><p>A wave of warmth hit him, and Paul’s lips parted open with surprise. A fireplace was lit and roaring, a <em> real </em> fireplace! His eyes darted around, first to the deerskin carpet on the wooden floor, then to the blades on display, the bottles of water and wine, the dried meats kept in thick jars up on tall shelves… There was so much to take in. Candles were set around haywire, placed with no real rhyme, just to light up the shop. Paul shut the door behind him, a bell ringing from the ceiling. “A moment,” a man called from somewhere he couldn’t see with a pleasant and deep tone. “Just gettin’ something.” After said moment passed, a head seemingly popped up from the floor, which Paul now recognized to be somebody walking up a staircase, hauling a heavy box-of-something.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh! Here, let me,” Paul sprinted over, crouching and putting his hands on the bottom of the box, trying to help lift some of the weight from the other man. Lord, whatever was in here, it was hard on his back. A delighted sigh came from the stranger, and after a few wobbly steps, the two managed to slug the box on the display counter. “Are you well, sir?”</p><p> </p><p>The man, now fully visible and breathing heavily, just smiled and nodded. Was this Ritchie? He looked a little young to be a shop owner, but maybe regular people were just more independent than Paul was. And what a character this supposed Ritchie seemed to be, standing proud and happy. “Yeah, I always appreciate some help boy,” the stranger said and stuck out a hand for Paul to shake, which he took immediately. “Ritchie Starkey’s the name.”</p><p> </p><p>Paul didn’t know what to focus on, every trait on Ritchie seemed memorable; especially his blue, drooping eyes, his bulbous nose, and his kind smile. He almost wanted to laugh and point out how odd the stranger looked, but it wasn’t true. Everything sat well on his face. He looked rough around the edges, but overall friendly. <em> Very </em> friendly. One thing caught Paul’s attention in particular, and it was the gray streak in Ritchie’s curly brown quiff hair. The faded red button up and dirt-brown slacks didn’t add much to the man’s appearance, but Paul thought he looked nice, nonetheless. “Uh, Paul McCartney,” he finally responded, slipping into an overly polite tone. “Lovely t’meet you, sir.” Ritchie’s head cocked to the side as they let go of each other, seemingly beginning to take in the taller man’s details just like Paul had done to him. <em> ‘He looks like a bleedin’ puppy.’ </em></p><p> </p><p>“You’re a McCartney?” Ritchie questioned, sounding very sincere in his curiosity. Paul nodded. “Jim’s boy?”</p><p> </p><p>“You know him?” Paul asked, lips parted in surprise.</p><p> </p><p>“One ‘o my most loyal,” Ritchie's smile brightened. “Trades me hides for meat, when ‘e has ‘em. Stiff, isn’t he?” Paul giggled at that, nodding again. “That’s Jim. Take a seat, I’ll get y’something to drink, we’ll talk.” He guided Paul over to a cozy looking rocking chair, and the boy obliged, easily sinking down into the cushions. Paul could feel the fireplace’s heat from his new spot, a feeling he welcomed, especially after the morning chill. He swore dew was still stuck to the ends of his hair.</p><p> </p><p>Before he knew it, Ritchie was sitting beside him, drinks in hand. “Didn’t know how long y’could stay,” Ritchie confessed, handing a glass cup to Paul. “So I didn’t spike it with anything. Sorry.” Paul shook his head, trying to look as sincere as possible. He never was a big fan of alcohol, anyways, unless it was a good rum. Rums always seemed to go down smoother, with a more pleasant burn to them. Not the nauseous feeling he’d get from cheap beers or wines.</p><p> </p><p>“All well, not a big drinker, ta.” Paul took a deep sip, almost taken aback with the taste. It wasn’t unpleasant, it was great even, but almost overwhelmingly earthy. Almost like a spiced, apple-y syrup. <em> ‘Lord, this is good,’ </em> he thought to himself, going in for another sip. It left the roof of his mouth feeling sticky, which he licked with very little grace. Ritchie seemed satisfied, taking a big gulp from his own cup. “Tell me about yourself, then? I’ve never seen your little corner of the valley, as lovely as it is.” Paul cranked up his flattery, leaning forward a little. Praise whatever deity be that he could do one thing right.</p><p> </p><p>Ritchie thought for a second. “‘Ere’s nothing special t’me, just have things I want to sell. It’s a living, ain’t it?” Paul hummed in agreement, and he continued. “Lucky I’ve got anyone who comes by. Didn’t choose a great spot, now did I?”</p><p> </p><p>A bare response, but honest enough. “I think you chose a great spot, actually,” Paul humored the rhetorical question. “Perfect for someone like myself who needs a place t’stop for a good drink. What is this, by the by?” He shot a pointed glance to the cup he was holding, now half empty.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re stick thin, thought I’d plump you up a little,” Ritchie laughed easily as he spoke, no malice in his teasing. Paul bit back a grin. “Jus’ some good cider ‘n honey. You’ll have t’tell me if y’take it hot or cold next time, if you’re the lad t’take drinks from complete strangers more than once.” Paul sheepishly laughed, feeling a little exposed, but he took no offense. He’d just trusted Ritchie completely, maybe foolishly, by how kind he looked. All of his father’s nagging about ‘stranger danger’ didn’t seem to apply here. Still. The following silence was a comfortable one, as Paul worked on finishing his <em> [now suspicious] </em> cider. It was odd, to not feel sick after drinking something so thick and sweet, but he wasn’t about to question it. He noticed, as Ritchie took his long sips, that the beginning of a mustache was starting to form on the other man’s upper lip. It was almost charming, how he straddled between youth and adulthood, with his young smile and old eyes. Hell, if the man frowned a little, he might even be threatening. But Ritchie did no such thing. “What about yourself? Never seen your face ‘round here.”</p><p> </p><p>Paul really had to think about it. He wasn’t used to having conversations with people anymore, besides the occasional banter with Mike, or small talk with his father about his work. “Well, not much t’me either, sir. Barely go out of the house, ‘n when I do, my da’ wants to wring my neck.” The two laughed. “But I like music. Don’t get around t’talking about it, y’know?” Ritchie stood up from his seat and walked behind the counter, waving for Paul to come along. He smacked his palms on the surface with a silly grin. To lighten the mood. Paul followed, finishing his drink with an indulgent satisfaction and sucking his bottom lip clean. “Ta, again, really appreciate it,” he smiled sheepishly, setting the cup down next to Ritchie.</p><p> </p><p>“Any time, love company, love talking. Jus’ felt bad for making you all sad.” Ritchie began sorting through the box he and Paul had hauled together, pulling out packs of dried meat. It smelled good, even through the packaging, and made Paul painfully aware of how hungry he was. He had every intention of eating when he got to the cabin, but something to take the edge off wouldn’t hurt. “Time t’ask what you came in here for, right?” </p><p> </p><p>“Well, that’s the thing, I--” Paul cleared his throat. “I’m not sure. I’ve never been to a shop before, ‘n I’m just out on a little hunting trip, is all… But I do want to buy something.” He unclasped his satchel, grabbing a handful of notes and coins from a pocket inside. Ritchie’s eyes widened as the money was pressed into his palm. “Meat. ‘n water. Maybe… Maybe a…” Paul trailed off. In the excitement of being in a bloody shop, he forgot what they were for in the first place. Ritchie looked empathetic.</p><p> </p><p>“Hunting, what are you hunting for, boy?” The scruffy man asked, head tilting again.</p><p> </p><p>“Um… Wolves.” Paul couldn’t describe the pang of guilt that came in his stomach from saying those words. It seemed wrong. “Supposed t’be hunting for wolves…”</p><p> </p><p>Richie’s lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line, eyes downturned and face a little drained. It shook Paul. “Like your old man?” Both men refused to speak, Paul’s hands feeling damp with nervousness. He knew the business wasn’t as noble as it was made out to be. No matter how much trouble the occasional wolf caused, he didn’t find it justified to kill <em> every single one </em> he saw. They breathed, just like he did, and probably felt things, too. To Paul’s dismay, however, his opinion didn’t weigh in on the issue. Ritchie, bless his soul, piped up. “It’s not a safe practice, I’ll tell you tha’ right now.” His tone was a little bluer than before.</p><p> </p><p>“I know,” Paul threw all caution to the wind, voice smothered in exasperation. “Told da’ that, til my face went blue, but he just--! He wouldn’t listen, ‘n now here I am, all the way down the hill, in the <em> valley, </em> tellin’ a stranger tha’ instead!” Ritchie’s face flushed back with color again as he began to laugh, shaking his head. Paul couldn’t help but flush too, mostly out of embarrassment. He must’ve sounded like a right maniac, and a whiner, too. He’d upset Ritchie, and here the boy was, almost yelling his troubles away.</p><p> </p><p>“Calm down, boy.” Ritchie spoke, soothing and friendly again. Thank god. “Got a good heart in you, I can tell. Not very happy with your situation, are you?” Paul shook his head, hair curling around and sticking to his cheeks. “Here, I’ll make it easier.” The other man turned, back facing Paul. He had to stand on his tiptoes to grab something from off the wall, which made Paul realize just <em> how </em> short Ritchie really was. He quickly produced a knife, with an impossibly curved blade, and a sharp edge. It looked like it could cut flesh like butter. Bile threatened to rise in Paul’s throat, but he did his best to look unaffected. </p><p> </p><p><em> It just didn’t work very well. </em> </p><p> </p><p>Ringo’s eyes widened again, to almost comical sizes, as he put the knife down. “Oi, hey there, hey, it’s not for killing… Wolves.”</p><p> </p><p>“It- It’s not?” Paul tried to sound as casual as ever, but his shaking voice betrayed him. Nothing should ever be that sharp. Paul wasn’t weak, not by any means, but he thought something <em> that sharp </em> was too much power to give to any man.</p><p> </p><p>“No. It’s for vines, branches, brush, all that.” Ritchie replied, gaze searching for the emotions on Paul’s face. “Curved knives aren’t any good for killin’... Which you don’t seem ready for.”</p><p> </p><p>“Then… Why do I need it?” Paul asked, the question seeming straightforward enough, but somehow both knew it held an impossible amount of meaning. At that very moment, Ritchie was an old friend, walking him through his fears and holding his hand while doing it.</p><p> </p><p>“For gettin’ ‘round in the forest, you silly boy,” Ritchie said affectionately, like he was talking to a little brother. “I don’t like what you’re doing. But I want y’to keep your head while y’do it. Wild world, out there. Especially the grapevine patches, they can tangle you up like a little bug.”</p><p> </p><p>Paul let go of the tension that was bunching up his shoulders, finally breathing fully again. Something about hearing that was comforting. Ritchie didn’t <em> like </em> what he was doing. And neither did Paul. But he was still keeping an eye out for the boy, offering him a knife to help along the way. Paul wanted to say something, like <em> he’d be gentle </em> , or <em> he would do it as quickly as possible, </em> but nothing seemed right. It wouldn’t be enough. Ritchie just kept looking up at him with those friendly eyes, picking the knife back up and sheathing it. “Are you sure, sir?”</p><p> </p><p>“Would I offer if I wasn’t?” As light as his tone was, Ritchie was dead serious, shoving the thing over for Paul to take and pocketing the money he was handed. The payment was short, but he wasn’t going to tell the boy that, not after the scare he’d given him. With shaky hands, the boy accepted the new weapon, his grip tight and his eyes transfixed. “You be careful with it, ‘less you want t’have to come back for bandages.” Paul laughed. God, he was relieved. Just to help him through the woods, right.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, do hope you won’t mind me coming back jus’ for the scenery, then?” Paul cheekily bit back, sliding the blade into his satchel, mostly so he wouldn’t have to look at it anymore. Ritchie shook his head, sitting a bottle of water onto the counter, as well as a pack of dried deer meat. “For me?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, for the other puffy sleever in the room, right behind you.” Ritchie shoved the supplies into a paper bag, rolling the top up tightly. “Obviously for you, boy. On the house.” Paul accepted the bag gratefully.</p><p> </p><p>“Sure y’don’t want anything for it?”</p><p> </p><p>“Well... There’s one thing y’can do for me.” Ritchie leaned onto the counter, crossing his arms under him. Paul only just noticed the chunky rings that were on the man’s fingers, with sparkling colored gems framed in them. It was almost gaudy, and so entirely Ritchie, that he couldn’t hide the smile it gave him. Paul nodded for him to go on. “Don’t kick a wolf while he’s already down. You get what I mean?” Well… He didn’t get it, not exactly. ‘<em> Don’t attack a wolf while it’s vulnerable? Don’t kill a wolf if you have the obvious upperhand? Is there a real point to it, or is it just the principles of the thing?’ </em> Ritchie sighed, his head cocking again, less in confusion and more in concentration. There goes those puppy mannerisms again. What a dog of a man. “Boy, look at me, ‘m not asking for much. If you see a wolf, ‘n he’s got no way of escaping, ‘n he’s not putting up a fight… Leave him be. You owe it t’me, now.” </p><p> </p><p>“I… Yes, you’re right, sir. I do.” Paul nodded with finality, his back now straight. He felt like it was a fair compromise. A defenseless wolf wouldn’t be a proud kill, anyways, by his father’s standards. And Paul knew deep in his stomach that he couldn’t be so cruel. <em> But isn’t cruelty what makes hunting work at all? Is any killing cruelty-free? If you’re taking away something's life, what’s the difference between quick and easy, or long and drawn out? </em> He and Ritchie stared at each other for a few seconds, the younger of the two feeling entirely encased in his own thoughts, before the older smiled. He leaned forward, patting Paul’s arm.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re thinking about something rough, aren’t you?”</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe just a little,” Paul admitted, guiltily.</p><p> </p><p>“Cut it out, then.” </p><p> </p><p>“Thank you, sir. Very easy to do, sir. Why didn’t I think of that?”</p><p> </p><p>Ritchie laughed fully, and it made the boy’s grin brighten. “It’s just Ritchie, boy. No need for the sir stuff, ‘m only 20. You want me to feel old ‘n cranky so soon?”</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe a little, it’ll make all your wisdom ‘n advice seem a little less misplaced, y’know.” Paul nodded, sounding very serious.</p><p>“I’ll work on my gray hairs while you’re gone, then, just f’your convenience.” Ritchie winked, and Paul almost felt robbed, considering he was the one usually doing the winking, and the smooth-talk. “If you’re going to the cabins near the west, you need to stay on that dirt path, hear? Lots of things would be very interested in gobblin’ you up, ‘specially when you’re not ready for it.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know,” Paul sighed. If that didn’t sound familiar, then he didn’t know what would. “You’re tellin’ me everything da’s already said, y’know. Not that I don’t appreciate it.” It was Ritchie’s turn to flush in embarrassment, most likely realizing that he <em> was </em> trying to parent a kid who was only two years younger than him at best. It didn’t surprise Paul, Ritchie came off as a sort of older brother. Just endearing. “I’ll be careful, promise. I will.”</p><p> </p><p>“Then be on your way, ‘n come back soon with your little hunter mate.” Ritchie waved Paul off, and the younger boy took his leave, his excitement carrying him out the door with his new items in hand and his new friend in mind. The feeling was childlike, and it was good. They’d burned around half an hour together, just on drinks and banter alone, the sun now higher and the air a little warmer. The promise he’d made lingered on the tip of his tongue, and he just now realized how obscure of a promise it was. Maybe Ritchie just… Cared about wolves a lot. Paul couldn’t blame him. It might’ve been the same way he cared about songbirds, or his old childhood dog. But there was another thing that sat on his mind, one that made his step onto the dirt path falter a little.</p><p> </p><p>...How did Ritchie know about his hunting partner?</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Ritchie, Ritchie, he-wolf Ritchie! </p><p>He definitely knows more than he's letting on, at all times, and he's being the most loveable cheeky git while doing it! I hope this characterization of Ringo is okay, I've been so excited to update. Comments are so, so appreciated! :D &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I have an unhealthy amount of stamina for this specific story. It's starting off a little rushed, but I just wanted to get the basics down and Paul out of the house. ^^' Let me know what you think, and I'll be working on a Spotify playlist for this AU!</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>